


Love, Come Steal Me

by wickedg



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedg/pseuds/wickedg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rickon steals Shireen, Shireen steals Rickon, and Jon can only watch on, horrified, desperate for King Stannis not to have his remaining brother killed before him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, Come Steal Me

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Rickon is found and brought to the Wall while Stannis is there. He keeps trying to steal Shireen. Stannis is not amused, the wildlings encourage him and Jon isn't sure what to do.

They have had this talk before. Rickon knows what his brother will say, Jon knows how his brother will reply, and the both know that they will reconvene and have the same talk in either a week, or when Stannis next notices both his daughter and Rickon out of his sight at the same time.   
  
Rickon Stark, who keeps his direwolf close, and attempts to keep Shireen Baratheon, closer.   
  
At first the older girl had found it startling, and frightening, waking up to find herself sprawled over the boy’s shoulders, his great black wolf next to him, the fierce yellow eyes gleaming at her in the moonlight, and it is only when the sight of them reaches her mother’s ears that she finds herself quickly escorted back to her rooms, double the guards stationed outside, and her own mother sitting with her.   
  
“Did he touch you? Are you ruined?” _Are you ruined even more?_  
  
She doesn’t voice the thoughts Shireen knows runs through her mind, but she just shakes her head instead, and Shireen doesn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night, thinking of the red floor outside her room and still bodies of the guards the wild boy had immobilised before whisking her away into the night’s cold air.   
  
It is only after the fourth time he makes his attempt that she wakes up before he can steal her away, and she cannot help it, but she bursts out laughing, the earnest look of concentration on his young boy’s face startling her out of thinking him just a the wild Stark boy, but a boy rather like herself, in a way.   
  
He scurries away, embarrassed as she begins to cry into her muffled snorts and giggles, and the wolf even snaps the air at her before following his master. The wolf named _Shaggydog_. The _boy_ named Rickon. It was absurd, really, this little boy lost, trying to... _steal_ her. Her? She was Princess Shireen Baratheon, and she was not to be merely stolen, not by anyone.   
  
No, she thought. Not only was she a princess, Shireen had decided long ago, the repulsed faces embedded in her mind’s eye, anyone who was not like her, who was not afflicted with such facial deformities, who did not have to force themselves to ignore the forced polite smiles, that she would not be so meek to submit herself to their ‘generosity’.   
  
She was a Baratheon. She was a princess. Her father the king, the Lord of Dragonstone, the best commander in Westeros, saviour at the Wall. She was not merely some trinket to be picked up and taken away.   
  
It is when she smiles brightly at one of her mother’s men that she steals his dagger, watching as he averts his gaze, trying not to wince at how the greyscale looked even bigger, even more consuming on her smiling face. She sleeps with it at night, tucked beneath her pillow, and the next time she wakes from him sneaking into her room, she commands him to teach her how to use it.   
  
“What?” He asks, and Shireen is startled to realise that as she stands, expecting to loom over him, that he has shot up to stand just over her, and she wonders how she never noticed this growth, that this boy has started to become a man grown.   
  
“I have a blade, and I intend to use it. Would you rather a clean wound or for me to stick it in your eye? Teach me. Now.” She primly commands, suddenly feeling the years she has spent on the Wall, and the year in which he had begun his campaign of stealing her. Though the fire keeps her warm at night, she is glad now for the cold that seems to permeate all the residents at the Wall, glad that her bed clothes are thicker, more covering than her usual fare.   
  
But it is not her woman’s body, the thick wool that clings to her breasts and hips and legs that he looks at, nor, she is surprised to notice, is it her deformation that clings to her face. He is looking her direct in the eyes, his own blue speckled with the orange from the crackling fire, and Shireen refuses to be transfixed by the youthful beauty of this boy-nay, this man, who has been pursuing her so recklessly, who stands before her, not quite yet accustomed to this new frame his body has taken on, and she can _see_ the young child still within him, desperate to get out, to be held, to not be forgotten.   
  
Rickon Stark is not like those who cringe, who laugh, who sneer.   
  
It takes nine more attempts, eight midnight lessons in wielding a blade, and seven highly inappropriate run ins with the Wildling woman he arrived with, Osha, for her to muse on her own plans for stealing the boy six years her junior.   
  
Lord Crow tells him, begs him to stop, the so-called king glares at him, but Osha watches, along with Tormund, who has a slight grimace on his face, as the girl with death painted upon her face, creeps into their camp, takes their Rickon unawares with a blade to his throat, attempting to hold his arms behind him as he freezes, and then smiles a bit.   
  
“He’s not even putting up a fight!” He wails. “What good is that wolf o’ his, didn’t even look up?!”  
  
Osha looks at the booming man, now so quiet, and watches as Rickon manages to escape the princess’s trap, to pin her to a tree behind them, and sees the beginning of a grin twitching, hidden within his great white beard.  
  
The aforementioned wolf is now tugging at his master’s shirt, nudging him away from the girl, who sees her chance and begins to sprint away, her hood and cloak flying behind her, and Tormund grunts.   
  
“See? That blasted wolf! What good is it to be a-” and he stops mid-sentence, looks as if he has suddenly realised something of great importance. Osha prods him in the side, looks at him with a cocked brow, silently questioning his thoughts. “Ah, never mind. He’ll steal her tomorrow. STARK!” He now bellows, and Rickon, lightly flushed, runs towards them, picking up an axe along the way.   
  
“Let’s go hunt, boy.” And Rickon grins at him, beams at her, and as Osha watches them walk off with Shaggydog, stalking into the forest, and finds herself eager for their return, to tell them of the gossip she heard from the Wall, that this King Stannis is soon to depart, leaving his Queen and Princess behind quite at the mercy of the Wildlings, who far outnumber the crows.

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to keep their ages as per canon, because even though I really, really enjoy Shireen/Rickon as they have been written in fandom, I find it interesting to see a couple where she's the older one, and by such a difference, as well (though I suppose six years isn't that much in Westeros? Hmm.).


End file.
